Absolution
by wreckofherheart
Summary: The severity of Peggy's career, and how it affects those closest to her. [Angie/Peggy]
A girl is taken from her home, forced to erase her own name, everything which is associated with her original identity, and made to disappear.

The men, dressed in shirts and ties, look a little too sympathetic to be agents, but she guesses that's what they are. They talk to her as if she's _small_. A fragile thing, who needs to be stroked and cuddled and reassured everything is going to be fine. She is escorted into the back of a van, with only a bag of few clothes, and she is given another passport, another name; she is given another face and suddenly Angela Martinelli never existed.

All the while, she says nothing; she is silent and unnaturally pale, eyes wide, and tears threatening to pour. One agent fears she may burst into fits of tears, but she is resilient; she doesn't cry, she does nothing and is passive. She listens to their harsh revelation, listens to how she isn't human anymore; she was never born, she never had parents, she never came from Florence; she never was.

Little else is said. Then, she chokes on her fear, and asks only one question:

'Where is Peggy?'

* * *

To love again, she thinks it wicked.

Love has become her only certainty. The only thing stable and final is her love; how it grapples hold of her heart, crushes, and then burns her lover alive; scalds and eats at their flesh, until nothing remains aside from ash and smoke. _The scent of death_. And she is always left with this feeling; this hollow, lifeless feeling _._

It is certain, because that is the only element about her which kills _. With certainty_. It is a gradual, slow prey; its claws slowly circling her lover's neck, before digging into her lover's flesh, and _throttling_. Suffocating. That is her love: suffocation. It is more lethal than the gun she hides under her pillow at night.

She wasn't expecting to love again.

For the _wicked_ to return.

Not until she is tortured, tortured until she's bloody and forced to blurt out all she knows about the SSR. They get what they want, and threaten her to keep her mouth shut about the whole ordeal. Their threat is the girl's photograph she foolishly keeps in her pocket. A pretty girl, with bright blue eyes, and a happy smile. They grin cruelly and when she refuses to state the name of the girl, they try something much worse.

Drowning would have been a more humane treatment.

The water she's forced to choke on is a million knives in her throat, burning her nostrils, and her yells echo the prison chamber.

Peggy is tough. It isn't her name they are able to discover, but after the final swing, it becomes clear that the girl lives in Peggy's home; a mansion kindly provided by the infamous Mister Howard Stark. Within seconds, Peggy's wrists are released and she's locked behind bars, bloody faced and aching.

It is enough.

They know about the girl, and Peggy is trapped for days, shuddering and screaming out between the bars for some sense of _sanity_.

Agents find out her whereabouts. Shoot the enemy pointblank, and release her.

Immediately Peggy tells them about Miss Martinelli. She refuses treatment until she is told, _with certainty_ , that the girl is hidden away.

Less than six hours pass. An agent comes over to her bedside, confirms Angie Martinelli is safe, with a new name, a new home, far, far from danger.

Only then does Peggy collapse onto the pillow.

* * *

Now, her name is Grace Shaw, and it isn't _right_. She loathes the name, and she starts to consider this Grace Shaw as another woman entirely. Because that is who Angie has to be when she leaves the house and goes to work; that is the woman Angie pretends to be when the neighbours knock on her door and ask how she's settling in.

It is all a farce.

Angie's life becomes a performance.

And how funny, how hilarious it is that this is all she has wanted: a life's performance.

How _grotesque_.

There is nothing _glamorous_ about acting, about jumping into another's character's clothes; _about wearing another woman's smile, another woman's accent_. It is how they said: she, Angie, is erased. She does not exist.

The job she has is quiet. She is a librarian, and deals mainly with books than actual people. She is forbidden to find any other kind of work. She is locked and imprisoned in this _chasm_ of ruin. She sleeps in a bed which is cold, in a home which isn't even a home, but a shabby apartment with an outside toilet, and a small, grotty bath.

Angie spends her evenings wrapped in blankets, gazing out of the window, hoping Peggy might appear. Hoping Peggy might appear so Angie can yell at her, can smack her across the face, can grab her by her collar and _cry_ into her shoulder. And _beg beg beg_

 _Why, oh why, would you do this to me?_

She drops her head into her arms and cries silently, afraid she might be heard. Afraid her performance be shattered; after all, Grace doesn't cry.

The following morning, before work, Angie wonders if Grace smokes, and tries a cigarette from the boy next door. He encourages her it tastes good, and she scrunches up her nose, and hates the taste, but Grace isn't Angie. Grace loves the taste of nicotine, and she fancies the boy who's offering her the drug, so she smokes the cigarette and asks for another, and then he's touching her hand and then he's kissing her.

Angie doesn't like the way the boy kisses her. He's too eager, and he's too nervous. He has soft lips, but… Angie doesn't like boys' kisses. She likes girls' kisses, and she likes their sweet smiles, their warm eyes, the little mysteries they hold back, allow to tear them apart. Angie falls into the boy, kisses him back, and imagines it is Peggy she kisses.

Her heart explodes at the image of her face, her broken eyes, her shattered smile, and Angie pushes the boy away. He's shocked, scared he might have done something, and as much as Grace wishes to leap into his arms again, Angie walks away. Hot tears trickling down her cheeks. And all the while, she can't stop thinking about the girl, what must have happened; whether she will ever see that shattered smile again.

* * *

And, at one point, Peggy hates Steve.

She _hates hates hates_ him. For how he made her fall in love with him, for how wonderful his kindness was, and his brilliance. She hates him for leaving her. She _hates_ him for letting her kiss him. She hates Steve because he was wonderful, he was perfect, and she hates him because it wasn't Steve who should have died that day.

It should have been her.

Peggy should have been the one in the plane, going down, whispering her final confessions to the only man who cared.

They perform surgery on her. She has a burst lower lip, a swollen, black eyes. Internal bleeding. A broken leg, and a crushed arm. An infected finger which has to be removed. The doctors swarm her body, and she becomes a puppet in need of fixing. They look at her body, and see different parts, different pieces, and that's all they see her as: something not human. Something which they prod at, pull at.

Like those men. How they prodded, how they pulled, how they squeezed, how they _sliced_.

It makes Peggy sick in the night.

Then, she's reminded of Angie; small, young Angie. Too excited for life, and Peggy winces in agony. She cries silently, tears pouring helplessly onto the pillow; her throat stings, desperate for Peggy to wail, but she pushes her spine into the mattress, and _restrains_ herself from losing control. Peggy is used to pain.

Perhaps it is not the thought of Angie which hurts, but simply missing her.

Peggy misses Angie so dearly it breaks her.

* * *

One afternoon, Howard visits, relieved and teary-eyed to see Peggy alive. She stops him short, and asks about Angie; if he knows anything. If he can tell her, at least, if poor Angie is alive and that Peggy hasn't lost _another_.

Howard smiles. _He's sorry_. 'Yes. She is alive.' Peggy's breath escapes her. And then he tells her about Angie's location, what has happened to the girl; what her new name is, and the fact Howard hasn't seen her in weeks.

Tells Peggy that Angie is alone.

No friends. Nobody. Living a lie.

 _Because of Peggy_.

She might not be able to _take_ a life, but she can still _destroy_ one.

Peggy refuses to be held when she cries. Howard just sits there, feeling useless and upset, while he watches his best friend tear herself apart. He tries to comfort her, to tell her this is not her fault, but she cuts through him, voice blunt and cold.

It is always her fault. Steve was her fault, Angie was her fault.

One day, Howard's fate will be her own fault too.

Because Peggy is not allowed to love; so maddened by her own career, her own purpose, she is not a woman who is allowed to love.

* * *

Spring is the grim reminder. Angie counts the weeks, which are actually months. She stops at three, and decides not to count further. For her own sake. No word from the SSR, no word from Howard, no word from her family, no word from the boy next door.

No word from Peggy.

Until.

Until she no longer gazes out of the window, no longer expects; until her life surely is no longer her own, and she is forced to suffer the consequences of her own stupidity. _And loving Peggy was that stupidity._

Young, silly girl.

(But, how impossible. How impossible. To see that face, that tired, beautiful face and not. To not fall in love then and there. How impossible to think Angie would never liken to such an enigma, to such a wounded soldier.)

Like an angel, who flies too high for the sake of another, and allows her wings to be scorched by the sun's glare.

Until she returns from work, throws her bag aside, and hears a knock.

Grace is not familiar with visitors, and so Angie tenses. She considers calling the police. She stares at the door, at the door handle, and her heart beats in her ears. Somebody has come to see her, and they have either come to see Angie or Grace. Or both.

The door handle is in her grip. And she welcomes whatever is to come. She opens the door, and there, right before her, is a woman she never thought she would see again.

Peggy Carter is a startling picture.

Her face is lightly scarred, her lower lip recovering from a swell, and she leans on a crutch. Angie notes the missing finger also, and nearly slams the door shut. But she remains frozen, motionless; a statue, expression completely illegible. She has become the very thing she isn't: cold. Angie shows _nothing_.

Peggy has come back.

'I have been waiting outside your door for half an hour.' Peggy stops, clears her throat. Not out of shyness. 'I couldn't knock. I had planned what to say, and I can't speak.' Without a word, Angie has silenced Peggy Carter, and they stare at each other, helpless. Peggy parts her lips to try again, but she's useless. So _useless_ , and she has never appeared more human.

It would be romantic, if Angie wasn't so riddled with anger.

Language becomes a limited phenomenon in this moment. What Angie wishes to express cannot be conveyed through words.

She comes over, leaving Peggy outside the apartment, and Peggy waits. Waits for Angie to yell at her, waits for what is expected. Angie's lower lip quivers, water stains her eyes, and she squeezes them shut.

The echo of her palm meeting Peggy's cheek is a shock.

Angie weeps then. At that point, she has no choice but to weep at the sight of Peggy, her torn finger, her swollen lip, her wounded, wonderful face. Peggy accepts the hit, she accepts her punishment, because it is so deserved, and she even allows Angie to go in for another. She almost _wants_ it. Wants Angie to let it all out, to let it pour.

But Angie isn't the type.

She grips onto Peggy, and cuddles her so tightly, they nearly suffocate. Her scent is the same, the softness of her body, how tenderly she holds Angie in return. Everything is the same, and nobody has disappeared, and then, finally, Angie is Angie again, and the Grace she's been forced to play vanishes. The performance comes to its end.

Forgiveness is easy. Angie brings Peggy inside, strokes her scarred cheek, and doesn't dare ask. They decide to ask the obvious later. Even so, Angie can't resist––

'I thought you abandoned me.'

'Never. I was trapped in a hospital bed all of these weeks, and you were all I could think about. I understand if you aren't able to accept my apology.'

'You trying to find me again is enough of an apology.'

Angie kisses Peggy's forehead, pauses briefly, and then finds Peggy's lips. They pull back, and Angie's fingers curl into Peggy's jacket, and they kiss again. Peggy is soft, warm, exactly how Angie always dreamed, only this is real. She can feel Peggy's delicate breath tickle across her cheek, how patient and slow her lips feel on Angie's; how they fit together, perfectly.

It is all, _all of it_ , paralysing and a shockwave through their skin. Now, it is Angie's turn to fall into her lover's arms, and she kisses her until her lips are sore, and she's too overwhelmed. Peggy is tender, fingers stroking Angie's hair while their lips meet again, and Angie is lost in her; delirious with relief and the very fact that she has come back. _Back to her._

'Don't run far,' Angie pleads.

Peggy looks at her, so adoringly and amazed.

It is an easy certainty this time: 'Not without you.'


End file.
